Secret Garden. Cathryn Parry
“Aye, better late than never,” he mimicked.
She laughed, swatting his hand.
“I am sorry,” he murmured to her.
She picked up the French press, but he shook his head because he didn’t need any more caffeine in his system. He was wired from the flight, from the night of drinking, from staying up late.
From hitting Rhiannon with a golf ball.
He put the heel of his hand to his head. He just wanted to make up for...everything. His father was dead, and it was too late to do anything about that, but Colin was tired of regrets. There were things now, today, he could do.
“How do you apologize to a woman?” he said aloud to Jessie.
“Oh, no. You don’t need to apologize to me.”
“It’s for someone else, actually.”
She peered at him. “What have you done?”
He stabbed his blood sausage with his fork. “I hit a golf ball and broke Rhiannon’s camera, and then I inadvertently insulted her.” He shook his head. “Why would Jamie tell me that she’s married with kids if she isn’t?”
“Oh,” Jessie murmured. “Your grandfather, he’s...” She waved her hand. “Never mind about him. You let me handle his temper. Now, are you saying that you want to apologize to Rhiannon?”
“I do.” He thought of the landscape on the wall, the one that Rhiannon had painted. Then he gazed at his grandmother. “I don’t want bad blood between us,” he said meaningfully. “Not anymore.”
Jessie clasped her hands and put them to her mouth. Then she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with a tissue. Smiling at him, she stood and padded to a drawer, then came back with an old-fashioned box of notepaper and a pen.
The notepaper had a sketch of a bird on it.
He laughed. “Seriously?”
She just raised her eyes and gave him a look.
“Right.” He pushed aside his empty plate and took the pen and paper from her.
So much could be said in a simple letter. He should have written. Rhiannon should have written. They all should have written.
“So...if I tell her I’m sorry, do you think that’ll help?” he asked.
Jessie tilted her head. “My rosebush has budded. Cut a nice stem and strip off the thorns. That can’t hurt, either.”
He nodded. “Women like flowers.”
“Is there no one special in your life? Another young woman, perhaps?”
“No.” He clicked the pen open and then shut it. He’d never given anyone flowers. He’d also never written a personal letter.
This should be interesting.
He blinked, rubbing his fist against his eye. His vision was getting scratchy with lack of sleep.
Jessie noticed. “Aye.” She picked up his empty plate. “Have you slept yet?”
He shook his head.
“I’ve made up a bed for you. Get some sleep, and then worry about the rest of the day. After you rest, everything else will come easier.”
She was right. He really wasn’t functioning well. His brain was messed-up like a zombie’s.
He grabbed his bag and followed her into the front room, though he didn’t need to follow her because he knew this place by heart and always would, until the day he died. He walked behind his grandmother up a creaky, steep length of stairs that she didn’t navigate as well as she used to.
Inside the modest guest room was an ancient, wrought-iron twin bed, a scatter rug over a painted wooden floor and a set of drawers that had seen better days. He dropped his canvas bag on a metal chair.
“You know where the bathroom is,” his grandmother said. “I’ve put fresh towels on the table for you.” Fresh had that same wonderful rolled r.
He smiled at her, feeling like a kid again, but in a good way. In a naive way of trusting that all would be better in the morning.
She closed the door and let him sleep.
* * *
COLIN WOKE WHEN he heard the loud whine of weed-whacking directly beneath his window. Rubbing his eyes, gazing through the windowpane, he saw his grandfather attacking a patch of thistle, revving the motor and scowling to himself.
The perverse old dude. Colin chuckled softly. But then his grandfather glared up at his window in a manner that made Colin wonder if he was trying to disturb his sleep on purpose. The laughter died in his throat.
Jamie probably didn’t even have gout. If he did, shouldn’t he be resting the foot, not hobbling about on it? Colin was pretty sure that Jamie’s anger had more to do with him—and his presence in Scotland—than it did with any ailment Jamie might have.
Colin couldn’t think of anything he could say or do to make his grandfather feel differently about him. He was trying to be laid-back about it, but the facts didn’t lie. He felt lousy. He needed to get out of here.
First, he had to apologize to Rhiannon.
After rooting in his canvas bag for his shower kit and a set of clean clothes, he took a long, hot shower, ducking his head in the low stall. When he went back to his room, he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the sloped ceiling. Still, he took more care than he usually did with his routine. Colin was a casual guy, not big on combs or razors, but this time he was sure to make himself as clean-cut as possible for Rhiannon.
He didn’t know why—and maybe it was crazy—but it suddenly seemed critical to get her on his side again.
He sat on the bed with the notepaper for ten minutes, pondering what to say to her. How to get across to her that he was really sorry for his rudeness.
In the end, he just wrote from the heart. Downstairs, his grandmother handed him a pair of scissors. He went to the side of the house and clipped a few of her roses. If one was good, then six were better.
It was a slow twenty-minute hike to the castle. He passed through a small copse, around a spongy moor with pale green grass and alongside a creek—“burn,” they called it here. Nature had changed little except for some trees that were missing since his last visit; others were taller and fuller. It was funny—Colin couldn’t specifically remember most people he met, but he’d remembered this land. The outdoors was a big part of what sustained him. Probably no accident that he’d chosen to become a professional golfer.
Colin came to the front of the castle and stood for a moment, marveling over it. A huge, gray stone facade. Still the same turrets, the same circular gravel drive. The same short, wooden drawbridge that had once fascinated him so much.
He had to clear away cobwebs before he could ring the bell, but he heard the noise echo in the great hall, so he knew it worked.
A man dressed in a black suit answered the door. “Yes?” He had a bland voice and an expressionless face.
“I’m here to see Rhiannon,” Colin said.
The man coughed into his hand. Colin had no idea who he was. “May I ask who is calling, sir?”
“Colin Walker.” He shifted on his feet, transferred the flowers to his other hand.
The man bowed his head slightly. He opened the door and gestured for Colin to enter. “Please wait on the couch while I phone her.”
The whole thing was strange. Colin followed him inside. The first detail he noticed was that the interior had been renovated. The great hall didn’t look as much like a dank and drafty laird’s castle, but a modern home with all the comforts.
Colin